


See How They Run

by coffeestainanalyst, StarshipEnterprise



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Crossdressing, De-Serumed Steve Rogers, Dirty Talk, Forced Crossdressing, Forced Feminization, Forced Orgasm, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Party, Happy Ending, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-con Gangbang, Porn with a little bit of Plot, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Shame Boners, Size Kink, Spitroasting, basically it's a hydra gangbang, basically steve is de-serumed and gangbanged by some hydra baddies, fic with art, skinny steve and winter soldier bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-16 00:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14152473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeestainanalyst/pseuds/coffeestainanalyst, https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarshipEnterprise/pseuds/StarshipEnterprise
Summary: "Hand that shit to me, Feldman," Rollins orders.'That shit' turns out not to be the torture devices Steve was expecting.  In fact it looks like very flimsy scraps of white material, when he watches it change hands.  Are they going to gag him?  Tie him up?  They could just use his own belt for that, why would they send someone out to...?When he realizes what Rollins is holding, his stomach drops.  His eyes go as wide as they can despite feeling like his eyelids are made of lead, staring at what's now being pulled up around his legs.What starts out as an attempt to find Bucky and help him remember somehow gets Steve locked in a basement, without the serum, wearing only lingerie and staring down five very angry Hydra agents who want revenge.





	See How They Run

**Author's Note:**

> Art by coffeestainanalyst
> 
> Story by StarshipEnterprise

At first all he can hear is his own heartbeat, loud and sluggish in his ears.

He groans, tries to get up; something's very wrong, and that's always his first instinct, to right himself and keep fighting. Doesn't feel like there's anything restraining him, but he doesn't have an ounce of strength, like he's been sapped of it.

When the pain registers, it's dull and persistent and everywhere. An ache in his lungs, a soreness in his limbs, painful pressure along one side of his body – he's lying on a hard surface, bony frame feeling every bit of it.

Christ, he's like he used to be. Small and shitty. He remembers it with grim defeat, hears himself groan.

"I think pretty boy's waking up."

"About damn time."

He's not alone. Where the hell is he, he was...it's so hard to remember, to think, his mind sluggish and foggy like when he'd get sick and they'd drug him up just to stop the coughing from tearing a muscle in his ribs. It's been a long time since he felt like this, and he strains to remember.

Bucky. He was looking for Bucky, had picked up signs that someone was living at an old SHIELD outpost; there were withdrawals made from old Hydra (SHIELD? It's been a year since the helicarriers and he still can't tell where one ended and the other began) bank accounts at ATMs in the surrounding area. And satellite imagery showed changes to the property, what looked like a woodpile stacked up behind the building that hadn't been there weeks before, and days later a charred patch on the ground. Someone was clearly living here, and Steve, in his desperation to find any trace of his friend, thought it was Bucky.

Stark was the one who gave him the idea to alter himself. Or, un-alter himself. He mentioned it in passing, a playful threat to shrink him back down to pint-sized if he kept mouthing off at him, and assurance that he could do it. He sure as hell didn't think Steve would actually agree.

Having the serum extracted was a painful process, but not as bad as it was going in, or maybe he's just built up his tolerance for pain. Which, he has a feeling, is about to be tested, because those are not friendly voices around him, and they're certainly not Bucky's.

But, as the fog in his head dissipates a bit more, he finds that he _does_ recognize the voices, muffled as they are and fading in and out with his consciousness as he fights to stay awake – he's definitely been drugged, and now that he thinks about it, he remembers a needle jabbing his neck. He'd just walked in the front door of the safehouse, unarmed like a goddamn idiot, and then a large hand had gripped his arm, and then the needle. Then blackness.

He didn't even tell Sam he would be here. Knew he wouldn't let him go if he knew his plan, now the reason he was a crumpled heap on the concrete floor. Going to a place Hydra knew about, regularly used before they were exposed, unarmed and with the build of a lanky fifteen year-old...yes, Bucky will be more likely to recognize him like this. And yes, he'll be less prone to attack or feel threatened if Steve doesn't have so much as his shield, and at the time leaving himself vulnerable was a risk he was willing to take. Now, not so much.

But he _knows_ those voices. He's heard them over comms, spoken in moments of panic and warning, or calmly during planning and debrief. At one point, he would've called it the voice of his team, but now it makes his blood boil with hot rage. His whole body jerks, the only product of his attempt to get up and on his feet, heart hammering louder in his ears.

"Look at 'im, you ever seen anything like that? It's like he went through a funhouse mirror."

Brandt. And the two who spoke earlier, Rollins and Molina. All from his old STRIKE team - the last time he saw them, they were lying on the floor of the elevator at the Triskelion. They got what they deserved, but somehow he doubts they see it that way.

"How'd he get like that, d'you think?"

"He's probably like a werewolf, the fuckin' freak. Turns back into a toothpick at the full moon."

His thoughts still feel thick and slow, but he manages to crack open his eyes, peeking through his lashes so they don't know he's aware yet, trying to get a leg up any way he can. But all he can really see is a concrete floor and wall. So he's probably in the basement of the safehouse, judging by the lack of natural light and the musty, slightly damp smell. They must've carried him down here after knocking him out, a humiliating thought. Christ, he's gotta get out of here...

His plan to slowly regain his ability to think and move while they still believe him to be knocked out is quickly foiled when a rough hand lands on his shoulder and rolls him suddenly, his stomach lurching with the wave of dizziness it sends over him, making him wince.

"Feldman better hurry the fuck up," he hears Rollins' deep voice say from somewhere above him. He's moved closer, but Steve's eyes are now squeezed shut against the harsh light from the bulb above him. "It'll be hard to wrestle him into his new outfit if he's up and squirming."

New outfit? Steve can't imagine what that might mean, but he doesn't like the sound of it. The idea of being undressed by Hydra operatives isn't an appealing one, especially when he can't guess their motives behind it, and for a panicked moment he thinks he might already be naked, but no, he's still got his jeans and jacket on. For now, apparently. He gets a horrible mental image of them putting him in his old tights and short-shorts ensemble.

His mind starts drifting again, eyes rolling back in his head despite his best efforts to stay focused, but he hasn't so much as been drunk in seventy years so it's probably affecting him more than it should. There's the sound of movement above him, upstairs, a door slamming. Then heavy footsteps on a staircase.

"The hell took you so long, did you stop for food?"

"Nah, he was probably flirting with the shop girl."

"Both of you shut the fuck up."

The third voice is familiar, but Steve can't place it. It's gravelly, so raspy it sounds like it causes him pain to speak.

"Hey, don't say I didn't deliver," Feldman says, presumably back from his errand, and there's the sound of a paper bag rustling as it changes hands. Again, Steve tries to move, his body twitching more violently this time and eyes finally opening against the bright light, squinting.

For the next few moments there are appreciative murmurs, somewhere off to Steve's right, and more rustling as they examine what he brought.

"These will do just fine," says Molina, a smile in his voice. "Think they'll fit him?"

"I got the smallest size they had. The chick at the counter probably thought I was trying to outfit a doll."

"You _do_ look like the kinda guy who'd have a fuckdoll, Feldman."

Steve is barely listening anymore, focusing all his energy on slowly dragging his hand across the concrete floor, feeling around for anything he could use as a weapon. A screwdriver, a shoe, _something,_ but the only thing he finds is the warm bulk of what feels like someone's leg.

"Oh look, he's eager to get started," Molina laughs, grabbing his bony wrist and tugging hard. He drags Steve's prone form closer to him, the rough floor scraping where his skin is exposed, head lolling with the movement. No, no no no, what is this...

"Hold him up for me," says Rollins' voice, and he's pulled up by his armpits, his body sagging back against Molina's chest.

It took Steve a long time to get used to his bulky size when he got the serum. To stop looking up when he turned to talk to someone, and start keeping dishes on the top shelf of cupboards where he couldn't reach before. But evidently he's more used to being big than he realized, because being laid back against Molina - who was a good few inches shorter than him normally, and not quite as well built - feels like being against a giant, strong and broad and powerful. Someone he would have no hope of fighting off even without the drugs in his system. Which are wearing off more and more, at least, his legs spawning as he tries to struggle and a quiet moan of protest leaving him. In his head he's fighting like mad, but he knows on the outside he's no more effective than a tired and petulant child, at best.

It's when he felt Rollins' meaty hands tugging at his clothes that the panic really starts to set in. His jacket goes first, Molina helping to tug his limp arms out of it, then pull his shirt over his head. Goosebumps rise on his chest when it's exposed to the cool air, nipples pebbling, and his prominent ribs expand and contract with each anxious breath.

Slowly, his heavy-lidded eyes focus on the man before him, and he's surprised by what he finds there. Rollins has a few new scars, which Steve hopes are the product of loyal SHIELD agents fighting to stop him the day the helicarriers fell, but what gets him most is the raw _hunger_ in his dark eyes. He's never had a look like that directed at him before, the not-quite anger that promises something he knows he's not going to enjoy. Steve's stomach turns, and this time he really does squirm, if only for a moment before he loses strength and Molina's hands keep him firmly in place. Rollins laughs, a rough, nasty sound.

"Now you're starting to get it, pretty boy," he mutters, satisfied with himself, and Steve can only watch when his hands go to Steve's belt, unfastening it and yanking down his jeans without hesitation. And, to his horror, his briefs go a moment later, with another soft sound of protest from him. His legs kick weakly, trying to aim for his crotch and missing by a mile.

"Fuck. You think his dick gets any bigger when he's a muscle-man? That's just sad..."

"Hand that shit to me, Feldman," Rollins orders.

'That shit' turns out not to be the torture devices Steve was expecting. In fact it looks like very flimsy scraps of white material, when he watches it change hands. Are they going to gag him? Tie him up? They could just use his own belt for that, why would they send someone out to...?

When he realizes what Rollins is holding, his stomach drops. His eyes go as wide as they can despite feeling like his eyelids are made of lead, staring at what's now being pulled up around his legs.

"I got him a garter belt, 'cause he's old fashioned. Like a pinup girl from the forties. Get it?"

"We get it, Feldman, Christ..."

Steve grits his teeth, grunts and tries to jerk away from the hands holding him, but he only succeeds in shifting enough that his head isn't supported by Molina's shoulder anymore, falling forward limply. The position forces him to look down at his own body, pale and lanky under the harsh light, and watch as Rollins fits a delicate garter belt around his waist, just above his ass. The elastic waistband keeps it there, straps hanging down and tickling his thighs, and he sees a moment later what they're for when Rollins takes each of his feet in turn and pulls thin stockings over them. One catches on a toe and ladders almost immediately, but he doesn't seem to care.

The fabric clings to him, and he thinks bitterly that they really _did_ put him in tights. His legs are covered in hair, but it's fine and blond, and with the stockings, he...he looks...

"There you go, what a pretty girl," Rollins croons, making the other men laugh, and clips the stockings to the garter belt straps on his thighs. Steve's cheeks burn, but he glares up at him with fire in his eyes, jerking once more against the strong hold. There's nothing wrong with ladies' clothes, or who wears them, but god if being dressed in them like a doll by his worst enemies doesn't make humiliation burn in his gut.

When Rollins holds up a lacy bra, he finally finds the ability to move his mouth.

"Go...f- _fuck_ yourself," he spits out, his words slow and dangerously slurred, worrying to his own ears. And god, he wishes he could think of something more clever and biting than that, but his brain is nowhere close to firing on all cylinders. Getting there.

"Oh sweetheart, you'll be doing that for me," he says with a wolfish grin, and that sends Steve's heart off pounding harder than anything else. Dressing him up to degrade him is one thing, but oh god, they can't, they can't be doing _that_ , there's no way—

The bra goes on despite his choked-off shouts, pitifully quiet because his lungs just won't cooperate and he keeps blacking out for a few seconds at a time from the drugs mixing with blind panic. There are no proper cups, the entire thing just made of lace and elastic, and it kills him that it fits like a glove. Makes him look delicate, inviting and pretty for them, there's no denying that, and he's starting to get that that's what they care about, more than just making a joke out of shrunk-down Captain America in lingerie.

He's still exposed between his legs, his cock soft and balls pulled up close to his body in the cool air, his whole frame shivering with it because he never could hold heat well when he was like this. At this point, he's not sure if he'd rather his privates be uncovered or god forbid put in lace panties.

"There, what d'you boys think?" Rollins asks with a grin, taking Steve's face in his big hand and holding it up so the men can see him on display, and he has to watch them stare him down hungrily. It takes all of his self control not to squirm under their gazes, to meet each one of them with stone cold hatred. The effect is better when he weighs almost two hundred pounds more.

There are four of them, including Rollins and Molina, Brandt and Feldman nodding appreciatively. But that still leaves the other voice, the man who's only spoken once. Steve isn't left to wonder for long.

From a shadowed corner of the room, the largest of the five men stalks slowly into the light, and when his face is thrown into relief, he can see the depth of the scars covering it, mutilating it and every other patch of skin that's visible on his neck and arms. But even with the disfigurement, it's immediately obvious who it is.

"Well, he looks a hell of a lot better than his precious soldier did," says the now much raspier voice of Brock Rumlow, a wicked smile spreading slowly across his lips.

Steve surprises even himself when he jabs an elbow violently into Molina's gut.

In the split second that the operative's grip on him falters, Steve scrambles forward a few feet, hell bent on sending Rumlow straight down, deep into the ground where he belongs. It takes Brandt, Rollins, and a recovering Molina to bring him down even with his lack of strength and the residual drugs in his system, now making his head spin so hard it hurts as punishment for his sudden movement.

"Christ, Rogers, just don't know when to quit, do you?" Rumlow laughs, the sound wheezing and painful like his voice.

Steve isn't listening, his mind racing. He said _did,_ past-tense – is Bucky dead, or did they used to do this to him too, when he was in their custody? Or both? Did Bucky suffer this same treatment? _Is Bucky dead?_

He can't breathe, and it's got nothing to do with asthma, though it probably has more to do with Molina's arm pressing on his neck in threat of a sleeper hold than it does with the lump in his throat. Steve swallows hard, forces himself to go limp again. He can't be unconscious and let them do god knows what to him, that's so much worse than being aware of every second of it. But when his body relaxes, he realizes with horror that he can feel something hot and firm jutting against his ass, which is bare on the rough material of Molina's tactical pants. A spike of fear shoots through him, but he doesn't let it show.

"You gonna behave?" he growls in Steve's ear, breath hot. After a long moment of deliberation and clenching his jaw, he nods jerkily. The arm drops from around his neck, assurance that he's at least going to be conscious while they assault him. What a comfort that is.

Rumlow goes back to sit in his chair in the corner, almost out of sight, but Steve can still see his cold eyes glinting in the shadow. Nothing good can come of that, and he knows he's going to pay for his outburst later. But god, he'll take anything, any beating or abuse if he can just know that Bucky's okay. Please let him be okay.

Rollins' hands wander from restraining Steve's hands to sliding up his bare torso, and this time he really does squirm, his whole body wanting to recoil at the gun-calloused touch. His own skin isn't toughened like he's used to, it's soft and oversensitive and he feels every little thing amplified, especially when Rollins settles his hands over the fabric of the bralette. The lace scratches over his nipples, and he squeezes to pull Steve's flesh into a tight handful. It hurts like hell, makes him yell and gasp - there's nothing there for Rollins to grab, but that doesn't seem to be stopping him, that wicked grin back as he pinches thin skin beneath the bralette.

"You got tiny tits, little girl, we'll have to put some fat on those bones," he teases darkly, and leans in to drag the tip of his tongue along his ear. It has Steve shuddering in disgust.

For once, he doesn't have a comeback, can't get any words out. He's not one to be scared into submission, and this certainly isn't submission, but god if he isn't terrified. This is nothing he ever thought he'd have to worry about, it never even crossed his mind – all he can do is lay there, useless and scared and apparently silent, his own heart pounding too loud for him to think and get out anything but stuttering breaths. Eventually he forces himself to say something, though it's not nearly as intimidating as he wanted to go for.

"G-god, why— why are you—" he stammers, arching away from his touch and feeling Molina's grip on his upper arms tighten dangerously.

"Are you fucking kidding?" Brandt laughs humorlessly from where he's standing, watching with arms crossed. "You ruined our lives and then handed yourself over to us defenseless as a kitten, course we're gonna have some fun with you. You should be thanking us for not doing worse."

"Begging for mercy, more like," Rollins breathes in his ear, just for him to hear, and chooses that moment to roll his hips forward in a slow, dirty grind. Steve gasps as the rough denim presses hard against his cock, pushes his ass back against Molina's hard-on so he's stuck between the two of them, entirely overpowered and helpless. Feeling smaller than he ever has.

"In your fucking dreams," he hisses through gritted teeth. But he's shaking, from cold and fear and something else.

The man looming above him rumbles out a deep hum, all eyes on them as Rollins unzips his jeans and tugs out his cock. Steve resolutely keeps his eyes up, doesn't give him the satisfaction of looking, though if the rest of the beefy man is any indication, he's big down there too. He reaches over to the paper bag the lingerie came from, pulls out a bottle of lube, and Steve knows he's in a bad situation when the sight of it makes him feel relieved. He still doesn't look, but the slick sounds are enough for him to guess what's happening.

Now, Steve is no stranger to this sort of sex. He and Bucky...well, it's been more than seventy years since they last did that. The only thing he's put in himself since is his fingers, and Rollins doesn't seem inclined to any sort of prep other than smearing cold lube over his own cock and Steve's entrance, his stockinged legs forced apart. A rough hand swats his balls, pinches his sac disapprovingly and makes Steve's whole body involuntarily twitch in pain, a muffled cry leaving him. Rollins takes no notice.

"Hey Brandt, you still got that packing tape?" he asks over his shoulder. Brandt is all too eager to retrieve it, barking out a laugh before going to a duffel bag against the wall, pulling out and tossing Rollins a roll of the tape. He tears off a strip with his teeth, inelegantly crossing it over Steve's soft cock and balls, trapping them against his flesh. More strips of tape are applied as Steve struggles, Molina wolf-whistling once his manhood is completely covered, only his hole exposed, just a thing to be used.

"That's better, now you're really our babygirl, none of that other filthy business," Rollins laughs. The adhesive on his cock feels so wrong, uncomfortable in every sense of the word, but Steve's only succeeding in tiring himself out by fighting the men's hold on him.

The discomfort of the tape is quickly pushed out of his mind when the blunt, hot tip of Rollins' cock forces inside him. It's too tight a fit, Steve crying out before he even realizes it, his back arching as he pants hard and tries not to scream. The drugs have worn off by now but his vision is still going blurry from the meaty cock stretching him too wide, pushing in too far, his gaze going cross-eyed as he's overwhelmed with sensation.

"Oh god, go to hell, eat shit and die," he gasps, but now strong hands are holding his ankles, keeping him forced open even as his legs try to kick out, do anything to dislodge him. He pants harshly, writhing, arms twisted back painfully and hands pinned behind him. All he can see is red, and he thinks this must be a dream, a nightmare, this can't be happening to him...

"Fuck, you're so tight, babygirl," Rollins groans, big hands holding his hips and making the garter belt dig into his skin there. He's seated all the way inside Steve now, thick and throbbing, the stretch making a burn so deep in his gut it feels like it'll never go away. Steve lets out a noise dangerously close to a sob, but there's anger to it too, face screwing up as he tries his damnedest to get away. "Like having a big fat cock in your cunt? Such a sweet girl..."

Steve makes it his life's mission to be anything _but_ sweet for them, but there's not much he can do held down like this. He tries to relax his muscles around the intrusion, reduce the pain any way he can, but it's all he can do not to scream. And then Rollins is _moving,_ setting a punishing pace and fucking his ass, and he's...and he's...

Steve's head falls back against Molina's shoulder without meaning to, a strung-out, shaky moan leaving him. His cheeks burn in shame.

It shouldn't give him any pleasure at all, not in the least. And it still hurts like hell, and he'd still rather be anywhere except pinned between these two men, but his body seems to have other ideas. Heat begins to build in his gut, shooting up his spine every time the massive cock fills him up, but he can still fight it. Fight the pleasure that seeks to become pervasive in his mind. Blearily, he forces himself to lift his head, to look down at himself being assaulted and fuel the disgust he still feels.

Rollins is so huge in him that he can see the outline of his cock beneath his skin, making his stomach bulge slightly. From this angle, he can't see his hole stretching around it, but it still looks too big to fit where it disappears between his legs.

"I think he likes that," Molina tells Rollins, sending a fresh wave of humiliation through Steve's body. But, he's shocked to find, his words bring a flash of heat with them too. He struggles again, to try to prove a point, but the way it changes the angle of the cock inside him only serves to make him gasp and whimper, biting his lip hard to muffle the noise.

"Yeah? You having fun getting fucked like a whore?" Rollins asks with a grin, his thrusts coming harder. He grunts with the effort, his powerful hips slamming against Steve's ass and sending jolts through him with each pound.

"F-fuck off— o-oh, oh!" Steve's seething words turn high and breathy as Rollins' cock assaults his prostate, sends his whole world spinning. He hates every second of it, but he can't speak except for the breathless cries that he makes without meaning to, punched out of him with each hard thrust. Sounding just like the whore Rollins is using him like.

He's not used to feeling powerless, not anymore. Beaten down, yes, but never completely helpless like this. He's entirely at the mercy of these men, and the rush of fear and adrenaline is something he hasn't felt in so long that it's having a strange effect on him. Has his legs shaking, his head going fuzzy. And as he looks down at himself again, he realizes with a sinking feeling that his small cock is straining against the tape covering it. He almost sobs.

"God, look at 'im," Feldman moans somewhere from the region of Steve's left leg, but he can't spare the focus to look. "He'd be soaking wet if he had a pussy."

And the worst part is Steve knows it's true.

"Look at me," Rollins growls suddenly, his pace becoming slightly erratic, frantic. Steve feels the pounding he's getting in his whole body. "Look at me, babygirl, beg for this cock..."

Steve almost rolls his eyes at the narcissistic request, jerks his head off to the side to stare at the wall. He's not _that_ far gone. And he's certainly not going to do anything to help this jackass get his rocks off. But Molina's hand takes his jaw in a vice grip, forces his head back to face Rollins', whose nose is inches from his own. He finds himself locked in his gaze, unable to look away as he moans unwittingly.

That seems to be all Rollins needs. Within a few seconds of eye contact, he lets out a guttural groan, slams his hips in hard, and Steve gasps softly as he feels hot release spill inside him. Rollins' cock pulses hard, still fucking him steadily through it and muttering something about good girls, but Steve is trying too hard not to come himself to notice. He's dangerously close, teetering on that edge just from the look in Rollins eye as he took him in those last few moments, and it's sheer stubbornness that keeps him from giving him that satisfaction.

Rollins doesn't seem to care all that much either way, though, pulling out of Steve unceremoniously, and he allows himself a small sense of relief. He knows it's not over, can still feel Molina's arousal against his ass and is acutely aware of the three other men in the room, but the burning stretch is gone for now, leaving him gaping and cold between his legs, come dribbling out of him. The man who put it there gets to his feet a bit unsteadily, laughing and jerking his thumb at Steve after he zips himself up. "Who's got the next turn?"

Steve is panting, shaking when Molina speaks up, taking one of the bra straps and snapping it against his skin hard enough to leave a red mark. "I'd say I do, yeah?"

Rollins tosses him the lube, which Steve can only assume he catches, too tired to turn and look. Suddenly Molina's grip on him is gone and he's being pushed forward, the concrete floor rushing up towards his face before he manages to catch himself painfully on his elbows. It leaves him bent over on his knees, the concrete cold through the thin stockings, and the straps holding them up digging into his asscheeks. He hears a couple wolf-whistles from the other men.

Somehow this is worse, being taken from behind, feeling incredibly on display as Molina situates himself behind him. He must have a thing for the straps snapping against his skin, because he does it again to the strap of the garter belt over his ass, making Steve yelp in surprise. And again, in spite of himself, every fresh wave of degradation comes with dizzying pleasure.

He's still trying to get a hold of himself, control of his emotions, when Molina's cock plunges into him and immediately starts taking him hard and fast. The only saving grace is that he isn't as big as Rollins, or maybe Steve has just gotten used to the feeling, but the new angle makes his cock drag against his prostate every time without fail. A moan stutters out of him, his body being rocked with each thrust, and he squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in his arms.

"Look at you, baby, all dolled up for us," Molina croons, and a hand smacking his ass where it still stings takes him by surprise. On instinct he tries to scramble away, but the only direction to go is towards the other four men, and Molina's firm hand gripping the back of his neck stops him before he gets very far anyway. Steve lets out an involuntary whine that stutters as the cock pounds into him. "You're a pretty girl, aren't you? Just a pretty little girl."

Steve would spit in his face if he were facing the right way.

"You always take ages to come," Feldman says, and suddenly Steve's head is being yanked violently upward by a hand gripping his hair. He's immediately faced by a cock inches from his face, where Feldman had kneeled down in front of him, zipped undone. His cock is drooling precum, and Steve's eyes follow a drop of it falling to the floor without him meaning to. "At least let somebody else in on the action too."

"Can't blame me for taking my time with this tight ass," Molina laughs, as if they're discussing their favorite beer, not the man on all fours between them. "Be a good girl and suck his dick, baby."

They don't give Steve much choice, not that he was expecting it. A moment later he's gagging around the cock, his nose pressed to Feldman's hairy crotch and forced to breathe his musky scent. Each time his throat convulses, Feldman moans, the hulking man forcing himself further down Steve's esophagus until there's drool running down his chin and his jaw is aching. The two men are quick to set a rhythm, each of them fucking him deep and hard from both ends and leaving him gasping for breath that he can't get enough of, growing dizzy and struggling between them to no avail.

Every bit of it makes his cock throb harder and harder under the tape.

He must be leaking precum quite a bit too, because it's wearing away the adhesive, the head of his cock meeting cool air as some of the tape falls away. He feels like an object, like all he is are warm holes to be fucked, rough hands on him sending spikes of pain and pleasure through his body. It all becomes too much so fast, still close from when Rollins had his way with him, and before long he's crying out loudly around Feldman's cock, his whole body spasming as he comes harder than he has in years.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck he's coming, he's coming," Molina moans, panting hard – surely he can feel Steve's muscles unwittingly clenching down around him, milking his cock just right. Before long he's fucking him through his orgasm, moaning his release as he fills him up, hands gripping his hips hard. When Steve's orgasm passes and he stops clenching up around him, Molina spanks his ass repeatedly to make him involuntarily do it again.

There are hot tears rolling down his cheeks by now, though he doesn't remember when they started. He's still choking on Feldman's cock, but suddenly his head is being tugged back, straining his neck and pulling him off with a soft pop. Lips stained red, wet and open, he looks up at Feldman questioningly, his mind hazy from orgasm as he tries to understand what's happening, fear spiking in him.

As it turns out, Feldman just fists his own cock to finish himself off, shooting off all over Steve's face instead of down his throat. He doesn't know whether to be grateful or not, sputtering and squeezing his eyes shut as his face is coated in come. The sticky substance gets caught in his long lashes, drips down his cheeks and lips, off his drool-covered chin, and the whole time he can feel the operative's hungry gaze on him.

"What a good bitch. You really look the part now," he chuckles, zips himself up.

Steve just tries to catch his breath – his stockings are torn at the knee now from the concrete, his hole feeling open and used as Molina finally pulls out, and he hates that the emptiness makes him ache. Makes him feel like he needs to be filled up again. He ducks his head, wanting to hide his face, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up. The tears are real now, borne of shame and exhaustion and not just from having a cock stuffing his throat. But he doesn't sob, doesn't let them hear his weakness even if it must be plain to see.

He hears them moving, walking around him, but he doesn't have the energy to look up, afraid of what he'll see. He's a mess, his stockings torn, leaking come from both ends, his own release messing the tape and the floor beneath him, evidence of him taking pleasure in this disgusting act. In being treated like a filthy whore, used and passed around. He trembles harder the more he thinks about it.

An arm around his middle pulls him up sharply, making him gasp as he finds himself pressed back against a broad chest. Not Molina again, someone bigger – Brandt, it must be. Hot breath washes over his ear, the man kneeling behind him using his own knees to force Steve's legs apart. The entire time, none of them have gotten undressed more than taking their dicks out to stuff them inside him, leaving him the only one exposed, vulnerable. On display. A hard cock juts against his ass, and when he slowly opens his eyes, he feels a shudder of fear move through him; Rollins, Feldman, and Molina are all standing in front of him, towering over him, each one with their cock in hand, stroking themselves and watching him.

"You got a tight cunt waiting for me, princess?" Brandt whispers in his ear. His arm is tight around Steve's chest, pinning both his arms down by his sides like it's nothing, but his other hand is the one that worries him. The one currently wandering up to the sensitive skin of his neck, caressing it as if teasing. All Steve can hear is Brandt's breathing, and the slick-wet sounds of the other three whose cocks are level with his face. He doesn't know where Rumlow is, but he's probably still sitting in his chair. Somehow Steve gets the feeling he won't be staying there.

Brandt sinks his cock into him then, slow and thick and burning, and when Steve gasps with the intrusion, his hand closes around his throat. It's so big and Steve is so thin that it encircles it completely, cutting off his air easily and leaving him wide-eyed, convulsing with the effort to get even a small breath. But he doesn't let up, and as his cock sinks in further, starts fucking him without him able to get any oxygen, he finds every sensation amplified. Feels every ridge and vein of the cock stuffing him full, fucking pleasure into him against his will, and very soon Steve finds his eyelids drooping. Finds his cock painfully hard.

He almost comes when he's finally allowed to breathe again, even if it's just a quick, rasping breath. The fresh oxygen floods him with ecstasy, his body shuddering with it, leaning heavily back against Brandt whose warm body is starting to feel dangerously inviting. He's so close to passing out, that hand closing around his throat again, the cocktail of fear and pleasure making his heart pound so hard and fast he thinks it might leave his chest. But he's high on it, on how hard Brandt is fucking him, calling him his princess like he almost means it, how he lets Steve breathe just enough to keep him conscious and so incredibly dizzy with pleasure. He can't think, can't see, can't do anything but take the assault of sensation and let his limp body be used.

"Jesus Brandt, you kinky fuck, you're gonna kill him."

Whoever speaks sounds almost bored, amused, and Steve barely registers a laugh in his ear before his throat is released for real this time, his airway cleared. He takes one massive gasp of air and that's all it takes to get him over the edge, coming so hard he almost does pass out, body arching against Brandt's. He doesn't make a sound except for heaving gasps of air, eyes fluttering shut as his head falls back against his shoulder, just breathing, taking his cock like a good girl.

"Wow, you liked that, huh princess?" Brandt laughs warmly, and Steve nods before he can stop himself. He hears four sets of laughter. Not concerning himself with it, he turns his head to hide his face against Brandt's neck, panting as his cock continues to throb.

"Oh no, we're not done with you yet," someone says – Feldman, he thinks – and his head is pulled up by his hair. "Pretty girl still has to pay her dues."

Feldman keeps a grip on his hair, which is a good thing because Steve doubts he has the strength to hold his head up himself, and soon the fat head of Rollins' cock is pushed between his lips. Someone tells him to suck, and he does, obedient out of exhaustion. He doesn't know how long he spends with all four men touching him, pinching his nipples, shallowly fucking his mouth, deeply fucking his ass, running their rough hands over him. He only opens his eyes when Rollins growls, "Look at us, slut," watching them from under his eyelashes, which stick together from Feldman's come.

Brandt is the first one to finish, flooding his insides with warmth and murmuring, "Take it princess, take all my seed." Steve can only moan weakly in response, Rollins pulling his cock from his mouth to cover his face and chest. Soon after, Feldman and Molina follow, until Steve's upper body is left dripping with warm wetness, the bralette stained, his gaze unfocused as he watches the three men coat him in their come.

There's deep-seated disgust taking root inside him that he can't imagine will go away anytime soon. For now, they seem to be done with him, leaving him in a crumpled heap on the floor like he was when he woke up here, except now with considerably less clothes and more fluids on his body. They tuck themselves away, talk amongst each other casually, and Steve watches with the last bit of energy he has as Brandt fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his duffel bag.

"Man, don't you know those'll kill you?" Feldman says, shaking his head at him and leaning back against the wall. Brandt waves him off, smiling as he heads up the creaky staircase to the main floor.

"Relax asshole, I only smoke after sex. Be back in a minute."

Steve takes stock of himself, of all the aches and pains making themselves known now that there are no hands on him, just the cold concrete floor. There's no way he's getting out of this anytime soon – not alive, anyway. Maybe Stark will be able to find him eventually, but he might not be able to before the STRIKE team gets bored of using him as their fucktoy. His stomach turns when he thinks about it again, remembers the way he came untouched for them, said he liked being...being _choked,_ nearly killed. He feels sick.

"Are you done with him?"

The gravelly voice startles Steve back to alertness, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. God, he'd forgotten about Rumlow. His voice sounds cold as ice as he addresses his team, and Steve sees him slowly rise to his feet, dangerous in his calculated movements.

The men sober up immediately, the three of them nodding and muttering, "Yes, sir."

"Good."

He can hear his heavy, booted footsteps as Rumlow approaches him, his heart hammering, and he tries to gather his strength to push himself up. Unable to in time, he gets a boot to the chest, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him onto his back, prone. The tape on his crotch has long since fallen away, adhesive worn off from sweat and come, leaving him entirely exposed in his dirtied white lingerie.

The way Rumlow moves, looks at him, is entirely different from his men; they were 'having fun', as they put it, taking pleasure in using him, literally fucking him over the way he figuratively did to them. But Steve looks up at Rumlow's torn up face, knowing it's probably his fault he looks like that – from what Sam told him, it's a miracle this guy is even alive – and knows he probably won't be leaving this encounter alive. Rumlow is here to hurt him, nothing more.

He doesn't even have to say anything, standing over Steve with his boot on his chest as he undoes his belt, staring him down like a predator upon prey. Steve's mind races, tries to remember what Peggy taught him about how to use an enemy's strength against them, how to defend himself when he's defenseless, but he barely has the energy to breathe for the pressure on his chest. Was this what Bucky saw before he died, too?

Rumlow's cock was is scarred as the rest of him, but clearly still functional, and larger than any of the other men's. With his last reserve of energy, Steve glares up at him with no fear in his eyes, setting his jaw against whatever is about to happen.

He doesn't reach for the lube, although Steve is already so soaked down there it probably doesn't matter, stifling his gasp as Rumlow kneels between his spread legs and yanks him close across the concrete floor. "You know these guys seem to like you better than your soldier friend," he rasps, eyes locked with Steve's as he moves to loom over him, cock jutting at his abused hole. Steve sucks in a breath. "Shame, really. They got to use him for years, every mission we ran with him. And they'll only get you once."

That's the only warning he gets before he's suddenly being split open, the girth of the cock in him making him shout and writhe weakly. Strong hands pin him against the floor, and when Rumlow fucks him, it's with impossibly deep, purposeful thrusts meant to hurt, meant to dominate, and damn if it doesn't have the desired effect. Steve tries to stifle his cries, he really does, but every thrust feels like a punch to the gut, like it's knocking him down even further, degrading him, and he lets out soft whimpers with each one.

But beneath all that, so far beyond the physical sensations, all he feels is rage and anguish. That this man touched Bucky, used him like this, that Steve hadn't done anything to stop it. He wouldn't wish this on anyone, and the thought of it happening to Bucky, even if he wasn't all there, even if he never will be, even if he's dead and there's nothing Steve can do to fix it...he chokes out a sob, trying to clap a hand over his mouth only for it to be pinned by Rumlow.

For all that's happening inside Steve's head, inside his body, the room is almost dead silent. The other men aren't daring to make a sound, pretending to be absorbed in other things, Steve can see over Rumlow's shoulder. The only sounds are Steve's quiet noises of protest that he can't stop himself from making, Rumlow's panting, the wet sounds of his cock moving in and out of him. Steve keeps his eyes squeezed shut until he hears the front door open and close upstairs, Brandt back from his smoke break, the creak of his footsteps on the stairs.

Except it isn't Brandt. Steve knows before he even gets down the stairs, before his upper body is even in view, exactly who it is. Because he's known that gait his whole life, knows it in his bones, hears it in his head during those hazy moments between sleeping and waking.

Bucky moves quietly, dressed in civilian clothes with his long hair casting his face in shadow. His eyes lock with Steve's before the other men in the room even look up at the man who isn't Brandt, and Steve finds himself smiling breathlessly, letting out a shaking sob of relief.

He watches, like a man enraptured, certain that the world is going to turn out right, as Bucky flicks off the light switch.

The room plunges into darkness, and there's no indignant shout, no gunshots – just the quiet but sudden scuffle of feet, the thud of deadweight hitting the floor, a couple of confused words exchanged before another thud follows, Steve feeling the ground shake beneath his bare back. He feels Rumlow pull out of him, feels him have enough time to straighten up and Steve instinctively pulls his limbs in close to his body. Only a moment later there's the quiet, wet sound of a knife sinking into flesh, close to Steve, but he has no fear even for a moment. And then the sound of Rumlow slumping sideways onto the floor.

Seconds later, Steve is weightless, lifted effortlessly by gentle arms and held close to a warm body. He's in a bridal carry, the arm under his knees entirely solid and cool to the touch. The only thing that had kept him conscious up until now was adrenaline and sheer stubbornness, and now he has no use for either; the world quickly fades away in a wash of relief and safety.

-

If Steve thought he had a rough time waking up before, it's a hundred times worse now.

Every point in his small body aches, but at his core more than anything. Like his very insides are bruised, beaten within an inch of life, and the first thing he does is suck in a sharp breath. At least he's on a bed this time.

It doesn't take long for it all to come back to him, all of it in blinding clarity, and he feels the shame wash over him anew. He can't count how many times they came in or on him, how many times he allowed himself to be desecrated, and Rumlow—

_Bucky._ God, Bucky...

He tries to sit up, too quickly, immediately worried that he's gone already, that he's been left alone to search for him again, but those fears are quelled the moment he feels a warm hand on his chest, gently keeping him down against the mattress.

"Buck," he tries to say, and coughs, his throat aching like hell and the word coming out strained. His neck and airway are bruised, no doubt about that, and he feels himself go red because he knows exactly why. The gentlest of hands slips behind his head, tilts it up, and Steve feels a glass of water against his lips. He drinks from it obediently, wincing against the pain of swallowing.

"Buck," he tries again, still hoarse but clearer, and opens his eyes against bright morning light. He's not in a musty basement anymore, thank god – it's a motel room, both the crappiest and best place he's ever seen, glad to be anywhere but there.

And Bucky is there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, so close he can feel the warmth of his body, his hair hanging in his face as they lock eyes. For a long moment Steve just breathes, drinks in the sight of him so close. Close and unharmed and _alive._

"You remember me," Steve whispers. It isn't a question, but Bucky nods anyway. It's him behind his eyes, no one else, not Hydra's puppet – that much Steve is certain of, but he can't read the emotion there.

"All the important things," Bucky says quietly, and it's the most beautiful sound Steve has ever heard. His right hand is still cupping the back of Steve's head, thumb brushing over where his scalp is bruised from his hair being pulled. "Still...still working, on getting the rest."

He sounds like he hasn't talked in ages, voice rough with disuse but so, so gentle. The intensity of Steve's gaze must be a bit much, because Bucky looks away to stare at the window.

"They hurt you," Bucky whispers. It isn't a question, but Steve nods anyway.

"You saved me," he counters. It's a moment before Bucky speaks, shaking his head minutely.

"I knew what they were doing as soon as I saw Brandt outside," he says. "He only smokes after— after he..."

Steve's heart drops to his stomach, and he sits up, dealing with the dizziness to move close to Bucky. The dizziness isn't helped by the fact that it's been a long damn time since he was this small compared to Bucky – in fact, with how much bulk Bucky's put on in muscle, he doubts there was ever this much difference between them.

"He said they did it to you too. Rumlow did." Steve hesitates, reaches up to lightly settle a hand on Bucky's shoulder, suddenly afraid he'll shy away. He doesn't, his eyes closing under Steve's touch, and he nods, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow.

"Why did you do that?" Bucky asks in an almost helpless whisper, his voice trembling at the edges. "You made yourself...like this...on purpose?" Grey eyes meet his, Bucky's brow furrowed in confusion and concern. _"Why?"_

It feels like so long ago that it happened, the question catches him off guard.

"I thought it would help you remember. The safehouse had signs of people living in it, so I thought—"

"That was a trap. That I set. For _them,"_ Bucky tries to explain, sounding exasperated, but there's something almost scared in his eyes. Scared for _him,_ Steve realizes, and god if that isn't a throwback.

"Oh..." So he wasn't entirely wrong, Bucky had been living there. Or pretending to, at least. The STRIKE team must've been trying to take him down, and he saw the opportunity to eliminate them. It was a smart move, and would've worked without a hitch if Steve hadn't picked up on the trail he left too. "I'm sorry."

Bucky's looking down at his knees, posture shifting slightly between stiff and defeated, seeming to be searching for words. "I didn't want them to hurt anybody else," he eventually mutters.

"And now they can't."

"They hurt _you."_

The last word is unsteady, Bucky's face hidden by his hair, and Steve knows what he sounds like when he's on the verge of tears. Knows that he's thinking the same thing Steve was when he was pinned under Rumlow, that he'd do anything to keep him from knowing what it felt like.

"Buck," he coaxed in a whisper, reaching up to trail his fingers along his stubbled jaw. "Look at me. I'm okay."

That might be overstating things, he realizes; he's not wearing the lingerie anymore, or anything for that matter, and Bucky must've cleaned him off, but he's sure his body is littered with bruises and scrapes. Not to mention the knowledge he'll have for the rest of his life that what happened yesterday (yesterday?) _happened,_ wasn't just some nightmare. But he supposes he's okay in the same sense that Bucky is okay, meaning they're both completely and irreparably fucked up, but there's hope for getting better. Clearly, if Bucky is sitting here talking to him, knows who he is.

Bucky does meet his eyes, and the corner of his mouth turns up the tiniest bit, a sight that makes Steve feel so much lighter than he did a week ago. He can't help leaning in, resting their foreheads together.

"Stay. For the love of god, Bucky, please don't go," he whispers, a prayer, his eyes falling shut.

Bucky's hand trails up his spine, prominent and crooked like it used to be, his fingertips following a much-traveled path.

"I won't," he answers.


End file.
